The Unlatched Door

I’d been working at the Gilded Crumb for three weeks when I first noticed the door. It was a steel fire exit, painted the same gray as the back wall, with a push bar that groaned like a dying animal. My coworker, Mira, and I were closing up, wiping down the counters and counting the till. The back area was a cramped rectangle of stainless steel and shelving, barely wide enough for two people to pass. The door was at the end, behind a stack of flour sacks and a mop bucket.

We’d just finished mopping when Mira asked, ‘Did you close the back door?’ I looked up from the till, frowning. ‘Yeah, I pushed it shut when I took out the trash at seven.’ She shrugged and went back to scrubbing the grill. But when I turned around to put the cash drawer in the safe, the door was ajar. A sliver of blackness showed between the metal and the frame, and the air from the alley crept in, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and rotting leaves. I walked over, pushed it shut, and heard the click of the lock.

That was the first time. Over the next few weeks, it became a ritual. The door would be locked when we arrived, but by the time the last customer left, it would be cracked open, sometimes fully wide, the night spilling in. We’d check the lock, test it, even put a chair against it once. But every night, it was the same. The door would open, and the lock would click open or shut with a soft, deliberate sound, like someone was standing on the other side, turning the deadbolt with a finger.

Mira and I started comparing schedules. We asked the morning crew if they ever saw anything. They said no, but one of the new guys, a kid named Theo, told us that he’d once found the back door open at noon, and the lock was warm to the touch. He laughed it off, but I saw his hands shake when he lit his cigarette outside.

One night, I was closing with a different coworker, a quiet man named Marcus. We were doing the final sweep, and I was at the front counter, counting the deposit, when I heard the back door creak. I went back to check, and Marcus was standing there, staring at the door. It was open about six inches, and the alley light was a sickly yellow through the gap.

‘Did you open that?’ I asked. He shook his head, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond. ‘It just… moved on its own,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I was standing here, and it swung open.’ Then he added, ‘There’s something out there. I heard breathing.’

We stood in silence. I strained my ears, but all I heard was the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic. But then, from the alley, came a low, rhythmic sound—like a person breathing, slow and deep, almost a growl. Marcus and I exchanged a look. I grabbed a broom, he grabbed a knife from the cutting board. We approached the door together, and as we reached it, it slammed shut with a bang that rattled the shelves. The lock clicked on.

We backed away, hearts pounding. Neither of us wanted to check the lock. We finished closing in silence, and when we left, we wedged a chair under the door handle, hoping it would hold.

The next morning, the manager called me. The chair was on the floor, splintered, and the door was wide open. But that wasn’t the worst part. In the alley, just outside the door, there was a wet, dark stain on the pavement. It looked like someone had been lying there, and it smelled like copper and decay.

Two nights later, I was closing alone. The manager had said we had to, even though I didn’t want to. I kept the radio on, the music tinny and cheerful, but it didn’t dull the dread. At 10:15, the lights flickered. I looked up from the counter, and the back door was open. Not a crack, but wide, the blackness of the alley yawning like a throat.

I should have called someone, but my phone was dead. I grabbed a flashlight and a meat tenderizer, and I walked to the back. The air was cold, far colder than it should have been even for late autumn. I stepped through the doorway, into the alley, and shone the light. The alley was empty, but on the ground, in the greasy water, there were footprints. They were barefoot, too large for a human, and they led to a grate in the wall that I’d never noticed before. The grate was loose, hanging open.

I leaned down, my flashlight beam cutting into the darkness below. I saw a face—pale, elongated, with eyes like black pits—staring back at me. It smiled, a wet, too-wide smile, and then it reached out a long, gray hand toward my ankle.

I scrambled back, dropping the flashlight, and the grate slammed shut. I didn’t stop running until I was out of the building, gasping in the cold night air. I called the police from the payphone on the corner, but when they arrived, they found nothing. The grate was welded shut, they said. The footprints were just oil stains. But I knew what I saw.

I quit the next day. I told the manager I couldn’t handle the hours, but really, I couldn’t handle the thought of that door, waiting for me. A week later, I heard the store closed down. The manager said they found mold in the walls, black and thick, spreading like veins. But I know better. It was never a mold problem. It was the door, and whatever lived on the other side, waiting for someone to forget to lock it.